


Unfinished It stuff

by GalekhXigisi



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Abuse, Adopted Children, Adoption, Child Abandonment, Homophobia, M/M, Multi, Physical Abuse, Trans Richie Tozier, Transphobia, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-25 09:16:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21353875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalekhXigisi/pseuds/GalekhXigisi
Summary: prompts and shit I couldn't finish
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier/Stanley Uris
Kudos: 36





	1. Chapter 1

“Richie,” comes the strict voice, one that’s professional and would never sit well in  _ anyone’s _ stomach. The boy turns towards it with a sickening burn in his stomach. His mother stares him down, stern and commanding with just a look. He knows what it means. She’ll still say it, anyway. “I’m going away for a while.” He knows better than to ask how long  _ a while _ is. “Your father and I are finally getting a divorce. I don’t want to step foot in the house after  _ he’s _ been in it.” She’s not taking him with her. Who’s getting custody? “I’ll see you when all his  _ things _ are out of this house.” They’re all out. They’ve been out for almost four years now, maring the last time he’d seen his father. 

The door shuts behind her. 

But that was months ago, when Richie was still in school, just a few days before his birthday. No one needed to know that, not as the summer had rolled near and they now sat around the pool Beverly had in her back yard, long since moved out of that shitty apartment and now living with her aunt in a house just two blocks away from Richie. His feet are in the water where Ben, Mike, Bill, and Stan all are. Eddie was jumping in, just it all felt like nothing more than static in his mind, even as Beverly sits beside him and swats at his arm, her aunt calling something from the back deck. He doesn’t know what she’s saying, what she  _ said. _

“Richie, dude,” Beverly more asks than says, the back of her cold hand hitting his sunburnt arm, making him jerk his attention towards her with a confused hum. “Em asked if you wanted a drink,” Beverly says, pointing at her aunt,  _ Emily, _ who was looking at him with a high level of concern. 

“Oh,” he says, forcing a smile as he rubs the back of his neck, “No thanks, Am,” he says, always saying  _ Am _ instead of  _ Em, _ shortening  _ Aunty Marsh, _ to which he had started calling her at some point around the six-month mark. “Sorry, I zoned out.” That wasn’t out of the ordinary. He did that a lot, always did.  _ ADHD, _ he often excused himself. They knew he hyper-fixated on certain things all the time. This wasn’t out of the normal in the very least. 

Emily shrugs and retreats back inside, saying something about how she was leaving for work soon. The collection of fifteen and almost-fifteen-year-olds all nod at her words, saying their collective version of  _ Goodbye _ to the woman that basically mothered them all. She looked out for them in ways Richie could never say his mother would ever do, nor consider. His stomach stirs unhappy at the reminder. 

“You alright,” Mike asks him, leaning against the siding so he can look at Richie, brown eyes full of concern. 

Richie smiles and waves him off. “Of course, I’m alright, ikey,” he easily pushes. 

“You - ou’ve been zon - on - oning out a lot - t,” Bill says, a brow raised at his friend. 

Richie tries not to let his smile falter at realizing the fact that they’re noticing it. They never noticed before this, why should they notice now? 

Eddie gently pats his back as he slips into the water, hand hitting just above the binder that sat on his chest, swim shorts accompanying the look. He doesn’t say anything, but Richie knows it’s support. 

He just shrugs after a moment. “Dunno, just been bad at focusing lately.” Not a lie, just avoiding the full truth. 

“You haven’t said a single  _ Your Mom _ joke to Eddie,” Stan says with a frown of his own. 

Richie tries to muster a somewhat happy expression, but it’s falling and Richie feels sick to his stomach. Why did that frown look so much like his mother’s own? Strict, disapproving, worried as she had been at his last birthday party, the final one he had had when he had only invited Eddie and Stanley. She had covered it with bottles of wine, drinking them down because Richie had announced that he thinks maybe he likes boys, too. 

His mother’s words still ring in his head, covered in a wine-drunk slur.  _ “You can’t be a boy if you want to like boys, too, Richie. I didn’t change your name from Rosemary to Richie for nothing.” _

He forces himself up, stumbling into the house, slipping his way across the tile. He barely avoids falling onto Emily and sliding into her on his way to the bathroom, vomiting in the toilet. It’s messy and he’s not even sure how he made it to the toilet on time, but he somehow did. He knows it’s going to push their worry further, but he can’t find it in him to care. Emily pats his back, knelt beside him and holding his hair out of his way. 


	2. Chapter 2

“So, what,” Eddie taunts with a raised brow, “You’re gonna fuck my mom? That joke’s  _ old, _ Rich!” 

“That’s not what your mom said while I was fucking her last night,” Richie fires back within an instant, prying a smile from Stan, who softly says, “Beep beep, Richie.” 

Richie waves his friend off with a smile. “Fine, fine. Stan, how’s Papi Uris?” 

“He’s good,” Stanley says without hesitation, turning the pages of his book. It was something along the lines of  _ Birds of America, _ but Richie couldn’t see it, his glasses no longer on his face, snatched away by Eddie minutes ago. “He’s still the exact same as he was last Saturday.” 

“That’s good,” Richie says, clumsily reaching over himself to grapple at the glasses still perched across the bridge of Eddie’s nose. The shorter boy only leans back with a smirk. “I’m going to flip us both out of this hammock,” he threatens as he leans forward more. He’s fumbling, though, his depth perception off. It was exactly why he didn’t wear contacts. “How’s your Ma, Eddie?” 

“Shouldn’t you know if you’ve been fucking her,” Stan asks with a soft smirk  _ (not that Richie could fucking see it, still focused on retrieving his glasses). _

“Ha ha,” Richie scoffs in reply. “She’s doing fucking  _ amazing, _ then.” 

“What about your parents,” Eddie asks Richie. 

Richie frowns, finally snatching his glasses back with a sharp swipe of his left arm. He just barely avoids slapping his boyfriend. “Fuck if I know,” he says, “Haven’t seen ‘em in fuckin’ forever.” He puts on his glasses with a hum, turning towards his Stan, now examining him. He was right about the book that the curly-haired boy was stooped over, though he frowned into the pages. 

“Wait,” Eddie says, “How long is forever?” 

“Few months,” he replies without a hitch. “Why? S’not like it matters.” 

Stan shakes his head, the curlier of Richie’s boyfriends finally looking up from his book. “The longest I’ve ever gone without seeing my dad is only a week, maybe two.” 

“The longest Eddie’s gone without seeing his mom is seven hours,” Richie scoffs. 

Without hesitation, Eddie plunges a foot forward with a glare at the taller. “Shut up,” he scoffs. 

“No beep beep, Trashmouth,” Richie asks with a raised brow, teasing the shorter. 

“No, fuckface, we’re addressing your parents right now.” 

“Shit, if I’d known it’d be such an issue, I’d just say they’re doing fine.” 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song inspiration : Saint Bernard by Lincoln

Richie presses his forehead to the wall, sighing softly as he listens to the loud yells of his parents. They echo through the whole home, sounding loud enough to piss off the neighbors. It always did, but it wasn’t like anyone was going to do anything about it outside of call the police and bitch about the noise. That’s how things went. The police would come and tell them to keep it down, so they would and would shift to physical beatings, breaking whatever got in their god damn way. 

He hates when his parents are home. He prefers when it’s just himself, sitting around the television as it plays reruns of whatever show aired that night. Sometimes, he’d flip on the radio and dance around while cleaning up whatever mess he had made during the time he was home, which really wasn’t much. He didn’t let people stay over, could never bet on his parents when they said they didn’t know when they were coming home. He was always scared they’d bust in and Richie would be sitting with one of his friends. His mother would give him the same earful he always heard from her, about how the place was god damn  _ filthy. _ It never was. Eddie wouldn’t step foot in the too-empty house if it were. Eddie only ever went in the underground den they called a clubhouse because Richie called him chicken shit and dared him to, insulting him the whole time, just like they always did. 

Richie didn’t want to hear their yelling any more than he had to. He didn’t like the sounds of his mother’s hand against his father’s cheeks and the broken glass that would shatter in the living room and he would have to pick up later. No one else would, so Richie always found him sweeping up shards with a frown decorating his features, the too-big house deathly silent as he did so. 

It’s the ninth night in a row, the ninth time he has to sit through their bickering. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so god damn tired


	4. Chapter 4

Richie glares at his mother, feet planted on the ground as he forces down his anger, biting his tongue so harshly that it makes the muscle bleed, unhappy with the pressure being applied. 

“I don’t want to be in your custody,” he says through grit teeth, turning his attention away from her. He didn’t like the way she was looking at him, like he was the dumbest piece of shit to ever exist. It was a distinct look she always gave people that pissed her off, one that could easily make stomachs churn inside out. He’s tired of seeing it aimed at him. 

“Why fucking  _ not,” _ she practically screams at him, her own fists balled at her sides. Fake nails dig into her palms. It would probably leave marks if she didn’t cut her hands during her angry kerfuffle. 

He raises an unamused brow, glare falling into a neutral expression as he looks at her expectantly. He offers his hand out, gesturing in a way that easily says, _ This _ or  _ Really? _

She huffs, stomping a heeled foot down, huffing. “Rosie-” 

“That’s not my name,” he easily tells the woman. “It hasn’t been for years now.” 

“All because of that stupid  _ Wentworth.” _

Richie hates the way she says his name. She said it like he was a criminal, like he had been hurting her daily. She had said it like she wasn’t the problem. Maggie was  _ always _ the problem. She always yelled the first insult, threw the first bottle, put her hands on someone  _ first. _ It wasn’t a problem at first, just a clearly broken marriage with a kid that had been sattled on the two adults. She had been ready to kill him the second he had proposed they divorce and if not for Richie having the other losers over, he’s sure she would have. It was rather embarrassing for Richie, who rarely ever had them over. THe very first time he had all of them over and he had managed to get in the middle of a fight, staring at the broken bottle with wide, terrified eyes, shards embedded in his arms with his friends on the stairs that lead up to his room, eyes wide and suddenly understanding all too well why Richie never had them over to begin with. 

Now, he offers a scoff. “Don’t bring Dad into this.” 

She laughs, the noise sounding more deranged than anything else, which makes his stomach turn tenfold. He tenses up within an instant, braced for the worst. However, she only cackles, “He’s not even your  _ father.” _

Richie’s eyes go wide as he stares at her, unsure of what to say to  _ that. _

She lets out another long laugh, smiling widely. It scares him in ways he can’t describe. “Well, I’m not exactly your  _ mother, _ either.” 

“What,” he asks, voice not going above a whisper. She seemed to be the focus of his attention within an instant, fingers pausing where they tapped on the table, unsure of what to do, how to respond. 

“You haven’t noticed,” she asks, her smile still crazed. “You don’t look like us  _ at all! _ He’s blonde with blue eyes. I’m  _ Italian, _ Rosie! I don’t look like you, either!” She gestures at the two of them. 

She  _ doesn’t. _ She’s flat-chested and average height with long, brown hair that looks far more like Stan or Bill’s hair than his own. Her skin’s darker, tanner than his or her soon-to-be-ex husband’s own skin. He was rather short himself, too. Richie didn’t look like either of them, sporting his own not-so-boxy figure with coils of black hair that hung around his head with a far more similar look to Stan’s than anyone else’s. 

She doesn’t give any more information, smirking as she walks away from the boy who feels like he was just punched in the gut. 

-

Richie sits silently, the hammock not really his own. In fact, both Eddie and Stan had joined him, the two curled around him at their own according, limbs tangled. It’s a miracle that the hammock doesn’t collapse as is, their combined weight and the fact that this was far from professionally hung making their chances for ending up on the ground significantly higher than it could have been if they had let  _ Ben _ hang it and not insisted on hanging it their selves. 

“Did you guys know I was adopted,” he suddenly asks the other six in the group, a brow raised at them. 

Beverly looks up at her friend, confusion ringing clear at her raised brow. “What?” 

“Yeah, my mom was trying to convince me to stay with her and not my dad. She said that he wasn’t my dad, and, apparently, she’s not my mom, either.” He shrugs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have literally no info on Wentworth in the 2017 IT so you bet your funky little ass I'm gonna start using hella headcanons.


End file.
